Tale as Old as Time
by Drusilla2
Summary: S/F. "He asks the question, the same question, every night, without saying a word." BtVS/Angel x-over, I guess.


TITLE: Tale as Old as Time   
  
AUTHOR: Drusilla   
  
EMAIL: spikes_pet@ottawa.com   
  
RATING: PG-13   
  
PAIRING: Faith/Spike   
  
SUMMARY: "He asks the question, the same question, every night, without saying a word."   
  
DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of these characters.   
  
DISTRIBUTION: Black Roses. Otherwise, email me.   
  
SPOILERS: The Gift.   
  
FEEDBACK: Please.   
  
  
TALE AS OLD AS TIME   
  
* * *   
  
  
He's hovering above me, his eyes twisted and gold, his features strangely distorted so that his true face bears no   
resemblance to the one he wears every day. His chest is heaving-- out of habit, I suppose-- his lip is curled into his   
usual smirk that's become his characteristic smile.   
  
He's looking me over now like a hunter regards his trophy, and he's right, of course. (He's always.)   
  
I've been won.   
  
Our bodies are entwined in the oldest dance, the earliest trade, flesh scraping against flesh and sweat mixing with   
sweat. It's like wanton magic that we're making, and I'm still awed at our polar opposites: hot and cold, light and   
dark, living and...   
  
dead?   
  
My body is shuddering as my hands explore his marble-like skin, his mass of cold, merciless ripples.   
  
At this moment, I'm afraid.   
  
Not of him, no: he would never, ever dare; not of death either. Death is my closest friend and most powerful ally.   
I've known it for too long, seen its face too many times, that its mystery is lost in my eyes.   
  
What I'm afraid of is myself.   
  
I'm afraid that this time, I won't tell him to stop.   
  
(How does it feel?)   
  
He's raising his eyebrows now, his eyes communicating what words do not allow. He asks the question, the same   
question, every night, without saying a word.   
  
(Does your blood scream? Does your spirit soar?)   
  
And every night the answer is the same.   
  
But tonight? What will it be tonight?   
  
(Is it dark where you are? Is there pain?)   
  
I remember once when I belonged somewhere, when I was whole. It wasn't perfect (not even close), but I had   
something and belonged someplace.   
  
And this... here?   
  
(Is there happiness? Is there bliss?)   
  
Here is existing between two realms, walking on the nonexistent line that separates living and dead.   
  
(Is there peace?)   
  
And this feeling?   
  
Are there words for this, even?   
  
(Do you love?)   
  
Is this love? Was love ever this painful, this dangerous?   
  
(Do you feel?)   
  
His lips are moving their way down my throat and up again, and for a split second, I'm falling, falling, falling..   
  
Until there is nowhere left to fall.   
  
Maybe this is love, after all. Maybe there was never anything else.   
  
(Can you hear the shrieking moon? The whispering leaves?)   
  
I know how wrong this is; I've always known but it does not stop me from coming. So every day, as the sun slips   
into the darkness, I come for him, and he's always, always here. And the outcome is the same every night, although   
we're both anticipating change.   
  
Will it be tonight?   
  
(Is this your one good day?)   
  
I can feel the sharpness of his teeth pressing against me but I say nothing. He knicks me gently and licks away the   
redness as my blood swells into a little puddle on my shoulder. He won't go any further; he's too smart for that. He   
knows, like he always does, that tonight has proven little.   
  
A gentle knick? It's nothing. He's done it time and again, to tempt me. (To satisfy his needs.)   
  
I pull away slowly, when we're done. Normally I'll stay the night and he'll hold me until the sun awakens, and then   
I'll leave and pretend that I'm all sweetness and sunshine once more.   
  
Tonight is different, isn't it?   
  
I'm almost choking with tears, though it's the one thing I swore I'd never do again, not since *she* died. I dress   
quickly and gather my things as he readjusts his silken sheets.   
  
For next time.   
  
He looks me in the eye, and we both know that there will be no next time, not for us.   
  
(No?) His eyebrows arch in question, one final time.   
  
I don't reply because already I'm out the door, my uncompromising eyes overflowing with tears.   
  
(Never.)   
  
  
* * *   
(end)   
  
* * *   
  
  
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